I got writer’s block and beer to drink

Why is it that the kind of inane banter used to fill so many evenings of wine and middle aged spread parties – perfect for filling these blog inches – is suddenly so sadly lacking?

It cannot be for lack of company, there are always the voices in my head for that, nor is it the lack of drink, as, in preparation for a barbecue tomorrow, there is at the moment “une sacre shiasse” (as the French would have it) of not only chicken pork and bratwurst festering in home-made (and created) barbecue sauce, but also enough beer and sundry liquor to satisfy a small Aircraft carrier crew.

There is a pause in my chores and sundry obligations for the day, which gives the perfect opportunity, as Willie Nelson would have had it, of “Letting my mind wander” through a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel, as Noel Harrison had it. Or through the “Dustbins of your mind” as the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah band had it.

There are no outstanding obligations in regard to work for the college course I have just undertaken, as, being anal about that sort of thing, I made sure all that was finished last week, a full fortnight before the end of term. Incidentally, I also passed my end-of-year exam with the second highest mark in the class and got an “A.”

Sir Paul blaring away outside the Queen's palace with the rest of the crew at the Diamond Jubilee.

Thank you.

No, as far as I can see there is no good reason why my usually over-active mind should not be racing headlong to its usual bizarre conclusions, abusing and maligning the English language along its merry way to its (for me) normal Zen-Nazi style viewpoint on whatever has taken my fancy.

There are even topics aplenty to dissect and disseminate amongst you, my newly loyal readership. (1,000 in Britain alone at the last count, unless the editor was directing fumes toward one’s anus, and why would he do that? To pacify some rectal colony of bees responsible for producing the fecal based “mind honey” that is one’s blogs inspiration perhaps?) Topics such as the recent “Eurovision Song Contest,” an evening’s worth of dire pap whose only purpose seems to be to ensure the streets are free of the terminally kitsch for an evening and give the rest of the population of Europe the chance to show how little they care for the British.

Queen Elizabeth II looking royal.

Queen Elizabeth II is leading the country in a celebration of her Diamond Jubilee, and one would think I might have an opinion or two to offer on that particular subject, being a particular subject myself. Somehow though, being neither a fervent royalist or monarchist, I am somehow content with an extra day’s national holiday that I intend to celebrate with the barbecue I mentioned earlier. I mean, fair play on the old bat for managing to stand for hours on a rainy day watching many hundreds of boats float by her and the rest of her family on Sunday, and for managing to tolerate the likes of “Sir” Elton John and others blaring away until all hours outside her palace last night.

There is a forthcoming international football tournament due to start in Poland and Ukraine this very Friday, but apart from bemoaning the length of the list of players unable to compete for England due to injury which lengthens every day, I am finding it hard to generate any enthusiasm for that. Perhaps after the first few games have kicked in and we get around to watching the first England game on Monday when we take on France I shall feel a little more like my normal acerbic and abusive self. We are playing the French after all. That ought to generate a little bile.

But for the moment there is none to be had, let alone spared, and this may be the root of the problem. I am otherwise content it would seem.

Last night I slept well, untroubled by the slightest trace of remorse for a damned thing. This morning I woke refreshed, attended to ones toilet, and performed the first of ones chores in an organized and efficient manner, hardly generating so much as a ripple of inconvenience.

Maybe this is what I need?

Perused the news headlines from around the world and was hardly moved to condemn even the smallest item to ridicule, despite the numerous daily opportunities to do so. Even that old British standby, the weather, is acceptable today. What is one to do, when there appears to have been a systematic and orchestrated removal of all insects from ones ointment? Hang on a minute, that could be interpreted as sounding somewhat paranoid. Forces unseen but suspected orchestrating a conspiracy of contentment with the sole purpose of leaving me without sufficient angst to generate even a single page full of whatnot and how’s your father.

That’s it then. The illuminati or whatever the unseen conspirators is it that run our world have finally revealed their sinister plan. It is to lull us into a fiendish sense of contentment as a first step towards total world domination. Staring with malcontent bloggers such as myself. Doubtless without those such as me plucking the strings of the orchestra of the disaffected, the world will finally fall into one neat long obedient line.

Fair enough. After all, the sun is shining, beer is to be drunk, other things to look forward to, and, ah the hell with it. The lure of the beer was enough. This particular freedom fighter is going to have a day off. See you all next week, if I can be bothered.

Smuttymutty, I think you mean Sauchihull Street, and today it is hardly the same as legend would have it. More wine bars than pubs and I don’t mean Yate’s Wine Lodges. I’ll try and do better next time for you Paul. I mean, wimping out on the Queen, I ask you.

smuttymutty

Oh come on! Barely a month into the dogpile and you are suddenly too damn content and comfortable in your own shit to keep digging! We expats demand more snark and vitriol, more tirade and lament! You even pussy out on the Queen when she’s a sitting duck – literally.
As my old friend Jackie Leven used to say, maybe you should go down to Glasgow on a Saturday night, stand in the middle of the High St (or whatever unpronounceable name it has) and yell “Eh Jimmy, go fuck yourself!”. Then you might have something to complain about again!